


speak each other in passing

by rauchblau



Series: the long light [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, IwaOi Day, M/M, Pre-Relationship, and stargazing of some sort, really really a lot of obliviousness, seijou third years, slice of life probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauchblau/pseuds/rauchblau
Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime's seventh year at Hogwarts begins, and begins, and begins, and begins. Somehow, Oikawa Tooru is always there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's Iwaoi day, or something. 
> 
> Title is courtesy of [Henry Wadsworth Longfellow](http://www.bartleby.com/356/211.html), who might or might not be spinning in his grave.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~i can't believe i've been writing this thing since summer~~

_i._

Hajime’s seventh year begins with a funeral for Creampuff. This would make for some serious metaphorical brink-of-adulthood nonsense, he thinks, staring down at the letter he’s holding. The weight of Oikawa’s chin on his shoulder disappears abruptly (he’s the slower reader of the two of them), accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. It’s early, just after breakfast. Matsukawa’s owl is nibbling on a piece of leftover toast, unconcerned by the impact of its message. The letter is addressed to Hajime and Oikawa both and uncharacteristically short, informing them of the passing away of a family friend and requesting their presence at the subsequent burial service.

Hajime turns to look for a quill, but Oikawa is already there, ballpoint pen in hand. He smooths the parchment out against a clean spot of the table and scribbles _We’re so sorry, Makki!! Of course we’ll be there_. The owl looks reluctant to abandon the last bit of toast, but takes off out the window obediently enough. Oikawa, ever quick to pick up on metaphorical meanings of all kinds, keeps his mouth set in a firm line as they clear the breakfast table.

A few hours later Hajime finds himself standing in Hanamaki-san’s flower beds, robed in black and sweating in the sweltering air of a late midsummer afternoon. The sombre planes of his friends’ bodies are outlined sharply against the bright backdrop of the garden and the bundle of white fur cradled in Hanamaki’s arms. Their gazes are directed downwards, to the rectangular hole in the ground. Its smell is sharp, too, fresh and moist and insistent.

Hanamaki crouches down and slowly lowers Creampuff’s body into the small grave. He arranges the cat’s paws carefully, until it looks just like it did sleeping on one of their four-poster beds, curled into a neat comma with its front legs crossed delicately under its head. Hajime thinks he catches the fleeting glint of the sun on a tear as it falls. Next to him, Oikawa is sobbing openly.

They each take up a handful of earth, and afterwards Matsukawa uses his wand to raise a smooth mound between the zinnias and the candytuft.

Later, they are stretched out on the lawn, black robes shed and the more forgiving light of a tired sun glinting on the neck of an empty bottle of firewhisky.

“It looks way less like an achievement when you know his mother gave it to him almost empty already”, Hajime murmurs under his breath.  

Oikawa’s laugh is just as subdued, barely an exhale. He keeps his eyes on the sky, smudged as it is with wisps of clouds tinted in orange and pink. It looks thin, almost disturbingly two-dimensional, like nothing more than a coat of colour veiled over something solid that presses down. It makes Hajime’s hands itch for his broom to measure out some of that distance, to make sure that the sky still stretches up, despite the heat and the way all things are flattened by it. On Oikawa’s cheek are the reddish imprints of individual blades of grass. Lines much like pillow creases on mornings in their dim dorm room, green velvet curtains pulled back in the unsteady light of candles and bare feet reluctant to meet the cold of a worn stone floor.

It might have been their second or third night there that Oikawa had begun to push their bedtime, lingering with stories and questions and imaginings of adventures they could have in darkened and silent corridors once they knew the castle well enough not to get lost on their way to the Charms classroom anymore. Hajime might have held back out of concern for Oikawa’s pride, or might have been too swept up in spells and greenhouses and dizzying views up high stairways to notice anything unspoken. It had been the boy called Hanamaki, in any case, who had read the signs first that night.

“Wanna sleep with Creampuff?”, he had asked Tooru, holding his fat white cat at arm’s length. It had dangled patiently from his hands, awaiting the verdict. “She’s rather old and doesn’t do much, but she likes to sleep on people.”

“You cat’s called Creampuff?”, Tooru had asked, momentarily arrested between suspicion and delight.

“I was five”, Hanamaki had said, sounding undeterred and still holding out the cat. They had been patient and silent, boy and cat, holding their position all through Tooru’s long, calculating look. When Tooru had finally wrapped his arms around Creampuff a little stiffly, none of them had missed the way his shoulders had slumped a little, instinctively hunching towards the cat’s warmth.

Tooru had still come to sleep with Hajime in the large four-poster that night, green and silver wrapped around him and one hand curled loosely into Hajime’s pyjama shirt. In the curve between his body and Hajime’s, the cat had walked a tight circle and dropped down, small vibrations steadily rippling out over the sheets. Hajime had fallen asleep feeling warm.

Oikawa swats at him half-heartedly when he recounts that anecdote out loud (“I’m not supposed to have been homesick, Iwa-chan, that’s so uncool!”), but Hanamaki rolls onto his stomach so Hajime can see his small, fond smile.

“Yeah, she was very good to sleep with. And I could always say I’ve got a pretty lady in my bed.”

“Mmmh, she was great in bed”, drawls Matsukawa, looking proud at Hanamaki’s startled giggle. “Except when she plonked down on your face in the middle of the night ‘cause now was a good time for food. Remember when she did that to Oikawa and he screamed so loud that Iwaizumi already had his wand out?”

“That was really scary, okay?” Oikawa protests, shooting upright to better convey his indignation.

“ _You_ were scary”, Hanamaki retorts. “I almost pissed myself because I thought a banshee had come into the room or something. And poor Creampuff was scared of you for a week.”

Oikawa’s face crumples. Hanamaki reaches out and ruffles his hair. “She still loved you, though, Tooru. Loved everyone.” He flops back down and heaves a sigh. “And she was _so good_ to sleep with.”

The stories keep coming. Fifth-year Matsukawa, out cold on the floor just a couple of days before their OWLs, with the cat’s fur a bright spot on his chest, content and purring under the weight of a large hand. Second-year Oikawa, ripping strips of parchment off an unsatisfactory essay and crumpling them up to toss them, Creampuff’s eager form a flash of white in the murky room, and Oikawa’s laughter. Hajime himself, cross-legged on his bed, an unobtrusive warmth settling on his lap that anchors his eyes to the page he’s reading. The smoothing out of Hanamaki’s face when he came into the room and there was, without fail, the thump of a body onto the floor and the patter of soft feet as Creampuff padded over to greet him.

Hanamaki falls asleep facedown on the lawn after a while (having had most of both the firewhisky and the emotional involvement) and the conversation fades into silence. They remain in their tight circle, breathing in the warm summer air spiced with dust and the faint smell of tired green. There’s only a hint of relief from the night. Sweat coats Hajime’s skin where Oikawa’s arm brushes his and where his ankle is heavy across Hajime’s calf. It’s probably gross, but neither of them moves away.

 

 

 

_ii._

In his parents’ opinion, the school year starts on the day they receive their letters. And since this is his seventh year already, Hajime is hardly surprised when he comes down for breakfast to find Oikawa sitting in the sunniest spot at the table, chatting with his mother and absent-mindedly eating his plateful of scrambled eggs. He’s probably not even annoyed anymore, since it has become abundantly clear in their third year that Oikawa intended to make a habit out of coming for breakfast on that day so that they could open their letters together. Resistance has been pointless ever since, so Hajime has stopped trying.

He is halfway down the stairs when Oikawa looks up and gives him a cheerful wave. Startled by the movement, Hajime’s father lowers the _Daily_ _Prophet_ just enough to squint over the edge of it and nod at him, then disappears behind the headlines again. Apparently, something warrants a disturbingly flashy picture of a middle-aged witch who is wielding a broad smile and a basket with the biggest heads of cabbage Hajime has ever seen. It’s good to know that the world has nothing better to do.

His mother gets up to hug him, looking guilty. “Sorry, I’ll make you fresh eggs in a minute. But Tooru hadn’t eaten yet.”

“How surprising”, Hajime mutters under his breath.

Oikawa sticks out his tongue, carefully angling his head so that Hajime is the only one who can see it.

Hajime ignores him.

“You stay here, I’ll do it myself”, he says to his mother instead and turns toward the kitchen, where the carton of eggs is still sitting on the counter. Behind it, a pile of half-peeled apples guiltily springs into action. His father is kind of bad about disciplining his kitchen spells when he’s not in the same room, but at least they take anyone’s presence as some sort of incentive. On the radio, a far too energetic cook with a vaguely familiar voice is talking about roast potatoes. Hajime feels his pockets for his wand, remembers dimly that he left it on his nightstand, and begins to crack eggs to the chorus of his father turning a page and conspiratorial giggles from his mother and Oikawa.

“Both terrible in the morning”, his mother stage-whispers.

Hajime rolls his eyes at the pan, but doesn’t turn around. Usually his mother shares her mornings with the rustling of paper and a wonky radio that keeps switching between Radio 2 and the WWN whenever it deems the timing proper or prefers the music on the other channel. Now there is a happy note in her voice, the quiet joy of company, so Hajime graciously decides that the eggs need all his attention and he cannot possibly have heard anything.

“Most of the underclassmen are actually afraid to talk to him until after first period”, Oikawa supplies happily, perfectly audible over a dissonant sound effect from the kitchen shelf.

The eggs lose the battle for Hajime’s attention. Oikawa catches his glare and has the audacity to blow him a kiss. Hajime nearly drops his egg shells into the pan.

“But that’s only because they haven’t realized that Iwa-chan’s all bark and no bite.” And then he giggles again. Hajime wants to crawl back into bed and sleep for two days.

Instead, he finishes the eggs and drops onto a chair, gratefully accepting a mug of coffee from his father, and bats away Oikawa’s hand that’s reaching for the last piece of toast.

“At least leave _some_ food for me, you filthy freeloader”, he grumbles, ignoring his mother’s tut and Oikawa’s exaggerated way of cradling his hand. “What are you even doing here?”

“Iwa-chan’s memory truly is the worst”, Oikawa sighs theatrically. “We pass this morning together every year, to help ease the painful suspen–– Iwa-chan, stop it, you brute!”

“You know the rules”, Hajime says. “Peace. Coffee.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, but he does get up and saunter towards the kitchen, empty dishes floating after him like a trail of obedient baby geese. Hajime’s mother follows with a last shake of her head, carrying her own plate, and soon he hears Oikawa’s muffled reassurances that no, everything is fine, he’s seventeen and it’s totally fine for him to be doing the dishes during the holidays, and he’s actually quite good at household spells, he really is. They turn up the radio in the kitchen and of course it’s playing some sappy catchy song that they can both hum along to. Oikawa’s going to want an MP3 compilation of his favourite songs _again_ and it’s giving Hajime a headache already. He never knows the titles, just starts singing random bits and then expects Hajime to google the lyrics. When his father passes him the sports section of the _Prophet_ with a sympathetic look, he feels more grateful than is probably strictly necessary.

Before long, however, his father finishes the paper and disappears into the kitchen as well. There is a clatter as the knife probably doubles its efforts with the apples.

As if on cue, Oikawa returns soon after. He takes a seat in the chair beside Hajime and steals a sip of orange juice, all pointedly silent and with an air of overbearing indulgence. Hajime makes it through three more lines of text before the prickling in his neck becomes too uncomfortable. He turns to find Oikawa staring at him, chin in hand.

“Iwa-chan. Entertain me.”

What a _brat_. Hajime rolls his eyes, but complies. “The Bats smashed the Wasps yesterday.”

Oikawa huffs impatiently. “I _know_ that already.”

“That’s all the news I have, you spoiled asshole. Unless you actually let me read, you’re not getting any more.”

Oikawa sighs again, tipping forward until his cheek is smushed against the table. He’s probably going to have toast crumbs stuck to his face. His fingers drum a restless beat on the cherry wood.

Hajime lasts five more lines before he gives up and tries to convey as much annoyance as he can by aggressively folding the paper. Given the floppy nature of the _Prophet_ , he doesn’t get very far.

“Okay, I give in. What’s up with you today?”

Oikawa straightens immediately. Of course there _is_ a crumb stuck to his cheek. Hajime sighs and tries not to stare at the way it moves up and down when Oikawa speaks, taking a bite out of his own toast instead.

“Today is a big day for me and I want to share it with Iwa-chan! I came over so you could witness my triumph at receiving both the Captain’s badge _and_ the Head Boy’s badge, of course.”

“You want to gloat, is more like it”, Hajime grumbles.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Iwa-chan”, Oikawa chides. “It’s most unappealing.”

“No one in their right mind would make you Head Boy anyway”, Hajime continues, undeterred.

“I’ll have you know that I am not only highly respected, but also top of the year in most subjects.”

“ _Most subjects_ being Divination and Astronomy”, Hajime says drily. “Ah no, wait. Sugawara beat you in Divination last year, didn’t he? What a shame.”

Oikawa inhales sharply, but it turns into a squeak and then he’s clutching Hajime’s shoulders, leaning over him to look out of the window. “They’re coming, Iwa-chan, I can see them! They’re here!”

He smells like buttered toast, sweet and warm. The crumb is still sticking to his cheek.

Hajime shoves him off.

“You’re standing on my foot, dumbass!”

“Iwa-chan!”, Oikawa shrieks in return, eyes still glued to the window, but he at least lifts his foot. His knee stops digging into Hajime’s thigh. By now, he’s practically standing on tiptoe, balancing himself on Hajime’s shoulders and vibrating with excitement.

“You going to let me get up to open the window, or do you want to do it yourself?”, Hajime asks with mild amusement.

“I’ll do it!”

Oikawa skips over to the windows and pulls one up, cooing at the owls as they land on the sill. He talks to them, a steadily friendly flow of ask-and-answer, while he undoes the knots that fasten the letters to their legs.

“Do you want to come over to the table to have a piece of toast? I think there might still be one somewhere, if greedy Iwa-chan hasn’t eaten it all. Ah, no, I forgot. You’re always terribly busy birds, aren’t you? Lots of important tasks... Well then, I’m not keeping you. Thank you for the letters!”

He actually waves at them as they take off. When he turns back, his eyes are wide and bright and Hajime is suddenly all too keenly aware that he is probably staring.

“Iwa-chan, what’s with that face?”

“Nothing”, Hajime grunts. When Oikawa’s gaze sharpens, he adds reluctantly: “You just… looked really happy talking to the owls, or whatever.”

A confused little frown appears on Oikawa’s face. It’s an act Hajime can easily see through, but it’s still cute, damn him.

“Is Iwa-chan complimenting me?”

“Can you not say my name in every sentence like a pre-schooler? And stop weighing the letters, give mine here already.”

Oikawa hands it over with a pout and immediately tears into his own envelope, turning it upside down and shaking it until something bright falls into his hand. He shakes it again. Having opened his own envelope, Hajime watches impatience and disbelief cross Oikawa’s face as he takes out and unfolds the usual pages of reading lists and welcome-back letters. Finally he gives up, looking downright _betrayed_.

“It’s not there, Iwa-chan! I can’t believe the _audacity_ —“

“Looking for this?”

Hajime smirks.

Oikawa’s eyes follow the shining piece of metal as it is tossed up and caught again, and yes, Hajime is aware that he is being a bit of an asshole – but after enduring Oikawa’s smug grins and incessant needling for days on end, he feels that he has earned that small moment of triumph.

Oikawa closes his mouth with an audible _click_.

“Well, congratulations, Iwa-chan!”, he sings, bright smile in place, and Hajime’s small moment is shattered. He tells himself he’s anticipated that reaction; after all, losing never comes easy to Oikawa. It still stings to see the veneer – but he can also see the care that went into constructing it, care that says Oikawa _means_ it, _wants_ to mean the happiness and the pride. Hajime can give him the couple of days he usually needs to make it genuine, he thinks as Oikawa drapes himself over his shoulders to peer at the letter.

“Who’s Head Girl then?”

“Michimiya Yui.”

Oikawa is quiet, his elbows sharp and heavy on Hajime’s shoulders. Hajime rolls his eyes. “She was Hufflepuff Prefect for the past two years. Do you really only know the girls from your fan club?”

“I _know_ her”, Oikawa defends himself, flicking his hair. When Hajime narrows his eyes at him, he presses a thumb to his lips in a gesture of slow thoughtfulness.

“Well, Yui-chan is _really_ cute! If you play it well, maybe you’ll finally get a girlfriend! Wouldn’t _that_ be a development…”

His breath is tickling Hajime’s ear. He ducks his head away, suddenly annoyed at Oikawa’s closeness.

 “I won’t even have time for a girlfriend, idiot.”

Oikawa hums.  “Just don’t think you can get out of training now, Iwa-chan. I simply cannot let my best chaser slack off because he acquired some menial administrative duties on the side.”

Hajime scoffs and finally shrugs him off. “As if I’d let you handle the team alone. Half of them don’t even listen to you.”

Oikawa draws himself up, dusting imaginary dirt from his robes. At some point, he has managed to get rid of the toast crumb. “By half you mean Kyouken-chan, who is indeed unfortunately inclined to respond better to your primitive approach than to my altogether much more sophisticated one.”

He’s quickly approaching rambling territory, so Hajime talks over him. “Besides, I want to get at Ushijima as much as you do. I’d never quit Quidditch.”

He watches Oikawa’s face change from poorly disguised worry to steely determination. His right hand, still clutching the Captain’s badge, comes up to Hajime’s shoulder. Hajime can feel the small metal lump between the heat of Oikawa’s palm and the thin cotton of his shirt. His pulse speeds up, almost as if they’re already on the field and waiting for the whistle.

Suddenly, Oikawa’s voice is how he likes it best, simple and steady and sure.

“This year, we’re going to get them for sure.”

 

 

 

_iii._

Oikawa insists that each new school year starts like this: with them and the old Muggle tent in the field behind their gardens, climbing in and out of the kitchen windows for snacks, and watching the stars. Their suitcases are packed; their clothes for the next day are laid out. There is nothing to do but to pull up the tent and listen to Oikawa’s hopes of maybe seeing some shooting stars tonight, although of course the peak in Perseid activity has been two weeks ago. Some years, they see a couple and Oikawa makes a big deal of wishing on them; some years they don’t see any, and Oikawa makes a big deal out of his disappointment. A doubtful glance at the overcast sky makes Hajime think that tonight will be one of the latter cases.

But Oikawa doesn’t let the weather curb his enthusiasm. He’s bustling around the tent, busily spreading out his sleeping bag and arranging trinkets: his old fold-up telescope, a book, blankets and a pillow, the glow-in-the-dark ghost gummies that Hajime will probably transfigure into alien heads later, all neatly lined up by his pillow.

“You’re letting the cold in”, he scolds over his shoulder, and Hajime lets the tent flap fall down and shuffles backwards. The tent is technically composed for two, but it’s a tight fit navigating around Oikawa’s activities now that they’re not kids anymore.

“I don’t know why we still do this every year. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, and you always get cold”, he complains half-heartedly, sitting back on his own sleeping bag. His neck is already starting to feel weird. Maybe he’s getting old.

“You mispronounced ‘beloved tradition’, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa gives the tent an affectionate pat.

Hajime ignores him. “We could at least use a normal tent. You know, one with actual heating, so you don’t complain half the night and then steal all the blankets.”

Oikawa sniffs. “Don’t pretend cuddling with my magnificent self isn’t the highlight of these nights.”

Hajime chucks one of the sour gummies at him.

Oikawa tries to catch it with his mouth and overbalances, grabbing onto Hajime’s shoulders and sending them both toppling to the ground. The sour gummy bounces off the canvas and lands somewhere near the wall. Oikawa, of course, doesn’t think it necessary to sit up before he starts rooting around for it, all the while berating Hajime for throwing food, what is he, a barbarian? They end up in an awkward sort of half-hug, with Oikawa’s weight mostly on Hajime’s chest and both of his hands occupied with locating the candy. It’s kind of difficult to breathe, but Oikawa doesn’t acknowledge Hajime’s plight. He simply pushes himself up with a small _ha!_ sound, waving the gummy ghost that is emitting a sad green glow, and then flops back down, chewing triumphantly. Hajime wheezes and tries to shove him away.

“Fuck off, you’re heavy.”

Oikawa clings to him, making himself purposefully heavier. “The great Oikawa-san will happily grant your ridiculous request once it is properly articulated.”

“Properly articulated, my ass!”

“That’s about the opposite of what I meant”, Oikawa starts to say – or at least Hajime guesses that’s what he was going to say, because it breaks off into a high-pitched shriek when Hajime digs his fingers into Oikawa’s sides. From there on it’s easy to flip them over and sit on Oikawa’s flailing legs, tickling him until he’s teary-eyed and gasping for mercy.

Hajime complies, sitting back on his heels to let Oikawa catch his breath. In the sudden silence falls the pitter-patter of fat raindrops, the hollow sounds of their individual impacts, the whispering of slow liquid on canvas, and after a heartbeat or two, the rush of rain proper, all sounds faster and indistinguishable.

“I’m sorry”, Hajime says softly, expecting dejection.

But Oikawa is sitting up with a smile that’s equal parts secretive and proud, and stretches to pull his wand from behind his pillow.

“Worry not, Iwa-chan, I have us aaaall covered!”, he sings happily and flops down on his back, nestling into the blankets, before he drags Hajime down after him. “Come on, come on, make yourself comfortable. And then close your eyes!”

His own eyes are gleaming a bit too much. It makes Hajime feel a little on edge.

“That sounds pretty ominous”, he says, squinting.

Oikawa pouts. “Don’t you trust me?”

His fringe has fallen back from his forehead in some sort of wispy cloud. It looks ridiculous. If Oikawa knew, he’d smooth it out immediately.

With a defeated sigh, Hajime closes his eyes.

The rain is there immediately, steady and insistent. He feels strangely exposed, motionless on his back with Oikawa’s warmth next to him, his excitement coiled into a thrumming energy that Hajime can almost sense. It smells like the tent always smells, a little like damp canvas and old socks, and a lot like Oikawa’s air freshener spells (“It’s pine needles, Iwa-chan!”). There’s a bit of movement from Oikawa’s wand hand, a swish of air and a miniature change of posture that brings his shoulder to rest against Hajime’s, and a murmured spell that Hajime hasn’t heard before. A beat of silence then.

“Okay”, says Oikawa, sounding eager.

Hajime opens his eyes – and gapes. A cloudless night sky is thrown over the canvas walls of the tent, silent and inky and littered with stars.

He turns his head to find Oikawa peeking at him. He looks away quickly when their eyes meet, face flushed and pleased.

“That is really advanced magic”, Hajime says, slowly.

“I used it for my astronomy assignments all the time last year”, Oikawa murmurs, eyes on the stars he’s conjured. “It’s only the basis for the one in the Great Hall; no clouds, no weather at all. We’re going to learn it in class this year, so it can’t be that difficult – I bet even you could do it.”

Oikawa only beat him by two points in their last Charms exam; but Hajime doesn’t feel like rising to the bait. Now that Oikawa says it, he dimly remembers seeing him raise what looked like an opaque hemisphere around himself on one or two occasions – but Hajime has never been on the inside of the charm, on his back with all the tent’s walls as a canopy. The effect is embarrassingly impressive.

Oikawa does, of course, pick up on it, perceptive bastard that he is. 

“Wow, Iwa-chan”, he quips, “you’re really quiet! Have I managed to impress you in the end? Has my wondrous display woken your love for the fine art of astronomy?”

“Yeah, hold on, I’ve almost got it”, Hajime says slowly, furrowing his brow. “That bright one there… it says you’re an asshole.”

Oikawa wails and flops his entire arm over Hajime’s chest in a display of uncoordinated desperation. “That’s not even astronomy, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime laughs. “Go look for shooting stars, before you miss one.”

“You’re a dreadful heathen”, Oikawa mutters, but tugs a blanket over them and settles a pillow under his head. He burrows close, blanket drawn up to his chin, and lets out a content sigh. Hajime’s right arm is jammed uncomfortably between them, feeling clunky. He peers over at Oikawa’s face and finds it peaceful, eyes already darting across the sky he’s made, alert for movement. Hajime resigns himself to the position.

It’s not that bad after a while anyway, warm and quiet, Oikawa’s arm a comfortable weight. Hajime’s lids grow heavy. Once, he thinks he sees a shooting star, but Oikawa doesn’t move at his side, so it might just have been the way the stars blur into long streaks of light when he blinks.

He only drifts back to the surface minutes or hours later when Oikawa moves his arm with a small sound of pain. But he tucks himself back into Hajime’s side with a little huff, face buried into his shoulder, breath hot against his skin.

The sky above them remains utterly still.

 

 

 

_iv._

Really, perhaps, his seventh year starts like this: on the platform with soot in the air and the shrieks of an annoyed owl somewhere to their left, and with Oikawa clinging to his back and whining into his ear about how Hajime is going to cold-heartedly abandon him on the train. He is only temporarily stunned into blessed silence by the arrival of their friends, or rather, by Hanamaki’s voice, just about loud enough that everyone in their vicinity stops to listen.

“What’s this, Oikawa? Did our golden boy not get his Head Boy badge?”

Hanamaki bumps Hajime’s shoulder in passing. Matsukawa raises a lazy hand for him before his eyes fall back on Oikawa’s scandalised face. They’re both in their robes already, Matsukawa’s perpetually rumpled, Hanamaki’s oddly pristine without the cat hair on them.

“I’m shocked”, says Matsukawa.

“Appalled”, says Hanamaki.

“I’m leaving”, says Hajime.

And so he does, or plans to – stepping out of his friends’ tight huddle, he finds himself face to face with a group of girls, Michimiya Yui in their midst. A shiny new badge is pinned to her robes. All of her friends are giggling.

Yui herself looks a little uncomfortable, face set in that particular way that is supposed to convey confidence. Hajime remembers the expression from a short girl with a ponytail at their first meeting as fifth-year prefects, although it wasn’t quite so schooled back then. During the first weeks, she had always looked a little like she was doing someone else’s job and expected to be called off at any minute. Apparently, she’s still prone to doubting her competence, even after two years of leading her house and being by far the most popular prefect with the lower years of all houses.

“Hey”, Hajime says and her eyes snap up to his face. “I was just going to look for you. I guess we should go and find the new prefects.”

“I guess”, says Yui, looking relieved. “Let’s go then. See you later, everyone!”

The other girls giggle again. Behind Hajime, Oikawa is wearing his most sparkling smile. Hanamaki and Matsukawa flank him as if they hope that some of whatever constitutes his allure will extend to them if only they stand close enough. Something sour settles in his stomach.

Hajime has never looked forward to talking about rounds and schedules so much. When they have finally extricated themselves, he can still hear Oikawa’s voice behind him as they make their way to the head of the train.

“I should put both of you on the bench for insolence. I can do that, you know, as your _Captain_.”

“Find another Keeper who can deal with Ushijima and I’ll be worried”, Matsukawa retorts blithely, just before they’re out of earshot.

Yui shakes her head and laughs, half a step ahead of him. She has been that way in fifth year, too, always the first on the way towards what scared her most.

“You don’t doubt that they picked whoever they thought was best suited for the job, right?”, he murmurs as they pass a particularly loud group of Ravenclaw fifth years.

When she smiles at him, it’s a little less tight at the edges.

“I don’t.”

 

 

 

He finds their compartment in the fifth wagon, between a bunch of third-year Gryffindors and a half-open door that is spewing yellow sparks into the aisle. There’s also someone making cat noises accompanied by hysterical laughter, so Hajime guesses he can probably leave them be. He slides their own door shut behind himself with something akin to relief.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa barely look up from the magazine they’re huddled over, although Hanamaki indicates the opened bag of Every Flavour Beans between them to be common property before he turns back to point at something on a page.

Oikawa smiles at him lazily from where he’s sprawled on his back with his shoes on the plush seat cover. It makes Hajime’s fingers itch to push them off.

“Oooh, sorry, Iwa-chan, were you planning to come here again after you ditched us lowly folk?”, he drawls, stretching to occupy the last bit of free seat on his side.

“Yeah, thanks, I can sit where your head is”, Hajime says and motions to plunk himself down.

Oikawa yelps and flinches away over snickering from Matsukawa and Hanamaki. He curls up to make some space and unfolds again immediately, pillowing his head on Hajime’s thigh. Big brown eyes blink up at him innocently from under Oikawa’s fringe.

“If you want to sit on my face so badly, Iwa-chan, all you have to do is ask nicely.”

Hajime shoves him off, horribly aware of the fact that his face is probably of the same colour as the bright red bean Hanamaki is currently choking on.

“Chili flavour”, he wheezes, teary-eyed.

“Iwa-chan is such a mean little prude”, Oikawa laments from the floor between their seats. “And to think I was going to share all of my lovely, delicious chocolate frogs with you.”

“You didn’t”, Hajime says slowly, over a sudden feeling of dread.

“He did”, Matsukawa and Hanamaki exclaim in unison.

“It’s our last year, Iwa-chan. Live a little!”

Oikawa is sitting up on the floor, arms extended in a theatrical gesture. He’s holding it, head tilted with a look so hopeful it’s almost comical.

“How many?”

“Twenty-five!”

“Whoever can fit the most in their mouth gets the last one!”, Hanamaki declares.

“I can’t believe you’re all seventh-years”, Hajime says wearily.

 

 

They are eleven and alone in a compartment; a foggy September landscape racing past outside the windows, two suitcases crammed into a corner and the cage with Oikawa’s new owl balanced precariously on top. The bird is glaring daggers. As yet another chocolate frog smacks against his thigh, Hajime finds that he rather sympathises with it.

“Iwa-chan”, Oikawa says mournfully, turning over an empty container. “That was the last one. Maybe I really am cursed.”

Hajime takes in the state of their compartment, empty wrappers and discarded cards strewn everywhere, chocolate frogs leaping over the floor and seats. One of them has gotten too close to the heating unit and is leaving smeary footprints wherever it goes. Perched onto the top suitcase is another, suspiciously watched by the owl. From a card on the floor, Xavier Rastrick is cheerfully waving at Hajime. He sighs. If one of them is cursed, it’s probably not Oikawa.

“Look”, he says, grabbing a frog as it passes by his feet, “I know you think it’s cheating, but you can really have one of mine.”

“No”, says Oikawa, with emphasis. The stubborn set of his jaw would be a little more impressive without the chocolate stain in the corner of his mouth.

“You can trade it for Gulliver Pokeby; I’ve been looking for him for months now.” More or less on instinct, Hajime snatches up a second frog that has landed on the seat next to him. Maybe they can find some sort of container for them before they melt or crawl all over the rather dirty floor.

Oikawa sighs deeply, swatting at a frog on his back rest. “I know you got that one from your aunt two weeks ago, Iwa-chan. Don’t patronize me.”

Hajime shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

If Oikawa wants to be cranky on their way to Hogwarts, alone in a compartment with twenty-three chocolate frogs that no one can forbid them to eat, Hajime will give him a couple of minutes, preferably while he tries to fit an entire frog into his mouth.

Half a minute later, three things happen: the door to their compartment opens. At least four chocolate frogs make a desperate dash for freedom. There is a surprised yelp and wild flailing as two boys grope for the frogs, and then the slamming shut of the door.

“Did we get all of them?”, one of the boys asks the other, panting. He has heavy-lidded eyes and bushy brows, and he looks like he’s already outgrown his newly bought robes – there’s a sliver of ankle visible below their seam. He also has a chocolate frog in each hand and another one pressed against his chest. It will probably leave a stain.

“I have no idea”, says the other, a shortish boy with a mop of strawberry-blond hair and no eyebrows to speak of. He, too, is clutching a chocolate frog. Another one is sitting on his shoulder, tame as can be. “But on the bright side, I think we’ve found at least one new friend.”

He carefully pokes the frog on his shoulder, looking delighted when it stays where it is.

Hajime sits there, two sticky frogs in his hands and chewing on a third, and watches Oikawa smile.

 

 

They are seventeen and the September day outside is bright and brilliant, and Oikawa is upending twenty-five boxes of chocolate frogs onto his seat.

“Okay”, Hajime says, staring Hanamaki down. “Whoever can fit the most gets the last one.”

“Deal”, says Hanamaki.

**Author's Note:**

> The Everyone Meets on the Hogwarts Express trope is unfortunately one of my favourite things.
> 
> Thanks to [my best friend](https://twitter.com/tobio_chan), who said 'Oikawa would totally buy like 20 chocolate frogs and set all of them loose at once just because he's looking for one specific card', and then left me alone in a room with that idea.


End file.
